


Spectrum

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PM's life in colour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectrum

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Ember!

She wakes to a world full of green.

Her eyes open in her tube. She has no name yet, and only a partial imprint, and she knows she isn’t meant to wake up yet. Waking up comes later, when she’s fully formed and ready to leave the cloning chamber. She knows this much, even through the half-maddening itch in her mind that says she should know so much more.

Her hands are white, even in the midst of all this green, and she carefully reaches out, touching the boundaries of her world, a smooth circle of glass. If she brings her face close to it, she can see beyond it. Ten thousand identical tubes are lined and stacked in front of her face, full of ten thousand others just like her, sleeping loudly in their green tubes. On either side she finds bodies identical to her own, also deep in sleep.

There’s a light flickering below her, steady on and off, and through the green she can distinguish that it’s a different colour entirely. Her eyes seek out more colours around her, distorted by the liquid that encases her. She taps on the glass, trying to wake one of the others beside her. There’s so much to do and she wants to do it all.

Something moves and she pushes through the thick liquid until her body’s near the front. There’s someone out there, someone like her, and she keeps her hands pressed to the glass when they come near. It’s a man and he smiles, and she smiles back automatically. His mouth moves but she can’t understand what he’s saying. But he puts a hand on the glass, right where hers is, and for a moment she can almost imagine what it’s like to touch him.

His other hand presses something beside her tube, and she feels her body grow very heavy, and very tired. Before her eyes shut and she falls back into deep sleep, he mouths something to her again, something she imagines is meant to be comforting.

If her curiosity has a colour, then that colour is the thick green of the cloning tubes.

\--

Her name is PM and she lives in a golden city.

She is a Parcel Mistress and she savours the title, feeling a glow of pleasure each time she thinks of it. The brief awakening she experienced in the green is gone from her mind, and she thinks in gold and white, bright and flashy and clean and pure.

PM lives near the top of a building in an apartment with two other women. One works at the shipyards and she always smells slightly burnt, her carapace dark with oil and grease. The other does paperwork for the Queen and she works long hard hours. PM likes them both. They have a little work schedule of their own for the chores and they take turns making dinner each night.

If she is quick (and she is always quick) then PM can be done her duties by noon, giving her the rest of the afternoon to do as she pleases. She often spends it wandering Prospit, finding hidden shops tucked in alleyways and buying the occasional sweet thing from bakeries. She climbs buildings and sits on rooftops and ledges and looks over ten thousand glittering golden spires.

She wears white and grey, a proper parcel mistresses’ uniform, and she is careful to keep it clean and intact, no matter how hard it may be to do so. PM is equally careful with the packages and letters she’s entrusted with, always making sure they end up in someone’s hands rather than left on doorsteps or in unattended boxes.

All her days are bright and sunny, Skaia’s pure white light there to greet her when she rises in the early morning, shining brightly over her as she does her duties and as she explores the city that is her home. Even at night, it’s never really dark, all those windows lit up with their own golden light and the city glowing softly into the late hours.

If her happiness is a colour, then it’s the gold of spires shining in Skaia’s light.

\--

Parcel Mistress means she delivers things, and sometimes, as much as she would rather not, that means she delivers things to Derse.

You see Dersites on Prospit sometimes, and it’s always easy to spot them. They’re everything that Prospit isn’t, dark and purple, an absence of light rather than a celebration of it. You see them moving through the crowds in the street, and you see the crowd part around them, as if they could contaminate everything with just the touch of a hand, spreading the black over everyone else. She feels a little sympathy for them. When she’s on Derse, she’s the one the crowd parts for automatically and quickly moves around.

PM doesn’t like Derse. It’s cold and it’s dark, everything looks similar but it’s not quite the same, and it’s so easy to get lost in dark streets and twisting alleyways. The people are quiet and unfriendly, and when she stands on Derse, she’s always so aware that War Is Coming (the words so large and unfriendly in her mind) and that she is in enemy territory, surrounded by people who would like nothing more than to see Prospit destroyed.

She doesn’t climb the towers here, and she doesn’t go into the shops unless the package needs to be delivered there. PM never stays long and she always heads straight back to the shuttles when her duty is done, her heart beating fast in her chest.

They all wear black and grey, and the purple everywhere makes her feel so lonely and somewhat frightened. But she’s brave and she never shies in her duties. The Mail must be delivered, and the Mail knows no allegiance.

But if her misery is a colour, then it’s the dark violet of those crooked Derse alleys.

\--

Sometimes things must be delivered to the Battlefield. It’s always a strange thing to travel to Skaia and to set foot on its black and white surface.

There are mostly farmers here in the middle of the Battlefield, growing their crops. White and black dirt clings to her feet as she walks along the proscribed paths, spotting green vines crawling out across the tiles and golden swaying squares of wheat.

She stops to rest near one farm, her mouth dry. PM had water, but she drank most of it on the way to the White King’s camp and she was too in awe of his Majesty to ask for more. So now she sits here, mouth dry as a desert, swallowing a few times in the hope that it will somehow get less dry.

“Hi,” A voice comes from behind her and PM jumps to her feet, turning around. There’s a Dersite standing there. He’s wearing a purple farmer’s outfit. There’s something in his hand and he offers it towards her. “Um. Here’s some water, if you’d like some.”

“I... would. Thank you,” She should probably say no. But she’s thirsty, and the farmer looks kind... for a Dersite. PM takes the cup and sips from it. The water is pure and clear and she downs the whole cup, not meaning to but unable to stop. She gives him a bit of an embarrassed smile.

“Would you like to fill your canteen?” He gestures to the wall nearby. “You can if you’d like.”

“... okay,” PM smiles a little and they walk towards it.

His name is WV and he’s a Warweary Villein, and it takes all of her restraint to not ask him why he’s so warweary when it hasn’t even begun yet. The water is good and she fills her canteen full while they talk. WV grows pumpkins, plump and round and so orange it’s almost funny. He’s never been to Derse or Prospit, but he says he sees Prospit in the sky sometimes, glittering like some far-off firefly. WV’s eyes are so nice and so white, and when she leaves, he insists she take at least one of his pumpkins.

It’s heavy in her arms and she carries it all the way home, feeling so confused when she thinks about how kind he was, how unlike everyone else she’s ever passed on the streets of Derse.

If confusion is a colour, then it’s the friendly orange of the pumpkin sitting on her kitchen table.

\--

War begins and she’s busier than ever. The mail to Derse stops almost entirely, but the mail to the four Lands picks up. She spends most of her time on the Land of Wind and Shade, parcel pyxides, sending and fetching letters and parcels and tablets from the tubes with their orange flags.

It’s here that she first sees a player in his teal clothes, watching from a distance as he scurries along, speaking with salamanders and to a small device in his hands. They’re so small and so pale, and she smiles a little to watch the child learn the game. Prospit may fall, but certainly they’ll win in the end, saving Skaia and the new universe that is safely nestled within it.

She has no idea what she is about to begin when the minitablet arrives. All she knows is that her duty must be done, and if she must fetch a parcel from the Derse Agent, then she will fetch it.

It has been some time since she met the Warweary Villein on the Battlefield, long enough that she is no longer nervous when she approaches Dersites. Most of them are friendly, if always a bit confused by how friendly she’s being.

He’s all too quick to doff his hat to her, looking at her in a way that’s halfway between flattering and uncomfortable. This man is still the enemy and that’s a fact she can’t afford to forget. “Greetings!”

“Greetings,” PM gestures to the package and envelope in his hands and puts on her most authoritative voice while still striving for politeness. “Would you mind handing over those parcels? I need to deliver them.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. They’re illegal contraband,” He almost sounds reluctant as he shakes his head, quickly adding. “You could petition for their release from my superiors.”

PM doesn’t much like the thought of petitioning for their release from someone in the Derse bureaucracy, but those packages need to be delivered. She still has the minitablet and she holds it out to him. “I have signed authorization.”

He takes it and studies the minitablet. The drawing may be crude, but the Player’s name is proof that it is hers. The Dersite hands over the envelope without question, but he keeps the package. It seems he’s not only just a stickler for laws, but also observant. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you,” She nods to the agent, who doffs his hat a few more times.

“Goodbye,” He says, reluctantly starting on his way. PM walks over to a tube and quickly slips the envelope inside, trusting that the wind will deliver it where it needs to go. And then, she starts off after the Dersite, following from a distance. That parcel needs to be delivered. If that means following him onto Derse and petitioning his superior, then she’ll petition his superior. And if she has to do something else, well... she’ll do that too. The parcel must be delivered.

If determination has a colour, it is the same dark blue that the ground beneath her feet is.

\--

She is numb when she meets Jack Noir for the second time, two crowns held in one hand, and a bloody sword in the other. He smiles at her and she feels nothing, exchanging the last remains of Prospit for a green box.

“You did good,” He tells her and she just stares blankly at him. Good. This was good? Destroying her planet’s monarchy was good? Giving this monster the ability to murder his own monarchy was good? “If you’re interested in more work, lemme know. I’ve got a – heh – opening in my crew.”

“I have a parcel to deliver,” Is all she can say.

“Eh, fine. But if I see you again, just know that I ain’t sparing you. This was a one time deal,” He spreads his wings. “Droll, stop that, get over here.”

The little one is kneeling by the body, his hands pushing on the corpses’ shoulders. When Jack snaps his fingers, he reluctantly stands and heads after him, casting a look back at PM as he does.

She waits until they fly away before she looks up in the sky, searching for Prospit. Her heart aches to look at it, to see even from this distances that it is cracked and broken. The moon is gone, and just on the edge of the horizon, she can see the smoking crater where it hit. Prospit is gone, destroyed by that madman for no reason other than that he could. No reason other than it was there.

PM holds the package in her hand and she wants so badly to throw it into the stream, to let it wash away. This package took away her everything, her worlds, her friends, her pride and her self-respect.

She thinks of her roommates, the shipmaker, the paperpusher, and she presses the back of her hand against her mouth to keep from making a sound. They’re dead now, both of them. There’s no doubt in her mind. They never left Prospit, not for any reason. So they must have been there when Jack Noir flew overhead with his sword, when he swooped in and began to cut them down one by one, summoning red miles to cut and choke and destroy everything.

PM wants to stop but she can’t. It’s too late to stop. It was too late to stop the moment she took that sword from him. All she can do is finish this and deliver this parcel and hope that somehow this was all worth it. PM turns her eyes to the clouds for answers.

If despair is an emotion, it is the red of the blood that splatters the battlefield and stains the river by her feet.

\--

Exile is misery.

Everything is at extremes. The sunlight is harsh and burning, the days dry and hot and endless, the nights so cold and dark that she feels like she’s dead. There’s so little water, and almost no food.

She thought she knew what it was to be thirsty, but she had no understanding of real thirst. She would kill for water, even dank and foul smelling stuff. Anything to make her mouth feel less dry. It’s the same with food, though she’s grown used to hunger pains and she no longer madly craves sand the way she did near the end of the first week, when she was learning how much it could hurt.

PM sleeps fitfully and dreams of that last day, the Battlefield, the blood, the green parcel. She wakes up clutching her sword tight, expecting to see someone standing above her, waiting to strike. Once she does wake, and she kills him before she’s even fully aware of what her body’s done. He bleeds out over the sand and she staggers back, unsure if he was attacking her or trying to wake her.

She walks, because there’s nothing to do but walk. The golden banner she wears fades to a dusty yellow, like the colour of the dunes, and further fades until its grey, like her old uniform used to be. After a while, she suspects she's been going in circles, rounding the same point over and over again. The was a tree she used to find her way by. But the tree faded and died, and there's nothing to mark the sand anymore, to let her know if her lines are straight or curved, or the mad zigzags of a woman who's long since lost her mind.

Thoughts don’t stick in her head the way they should. She finds herself thinking the same thing, over and over and over again, like if she thinks hard enough, this time it will stay, this time it will be real. She collects things, not because she wants them, but because she feels compelled to. PM digs in the sand and searches for something, anything, she can have and eat and drink, anything to keep her occupied.

It starts with the mailboxes. Even starving and nearly dying of thirst, she can't help herself. She carefully takes them off of their worn and weathered posts and takes them with her, carrying them in her arms, and then later in a bag, and finally, in a shopping cart she finds buried in the sand. Its wheels don't work in the sand, clogging and barely moving, and she's forced to make it better ones, big thick black wheels from the pot-lids she finds nearby. It still isn't perfect but it moves when she pushes and that's what matters.

She collects the letters from dead people to other dead people, stacking mailbox after mailbox in her cart. No matter how many boxes she has, there are never enough and she searches, digging through the sand for hours and hours in search of more. They're the only thing that makes her feel good, the only thing that scratches that awful deep-set itch in her brain. And even then, it's not good enough. Nothing is good enough.

If madness is a colour, then it is the endless dull brown of sand dunes stretching on forever.

\--

Twilight brings food and fire, and the feeling of safety in numbers, all things she hasn't had in such a long time. Sitting around with two Dersites isn't exactly how she saw her exile going, but it isn't bad. They're both quite nice. WV is polite and sweet, and AR is... well, he's completely mad, but he's also friendly and more than happy to share what's his with them.

There is something familiar about these two. Maybe she met them before. She struggles to remember, but her memories of her life before exile are often foggy. PM remembers... spires. Golden spires. A pumpkin on the kitchen table. Cake topped with cream and strawberries. Twisting alleyways. Her mail route. Green light and curved glass beneath her hands.

And Jack Noir. She can't forget that day. No matter how hard she tries to hold onto the rest, they all slip through her fingers like so much sand. But Jack Noir remains, always there at the back of her mind, always breathing down her neck.

There are so many things she wishes she could remember. She doesn't know what her kitchen looked like, besides the table and the window beside it. PM can't remember the faces of her roommates or their names or what they did, though she knows she had two of them. So many other things she should know had faded and left behind half-formed memories.

"Um," She's shaken out of her thoughts by a voice. It's WV, and he carefully pushes a can of soda over to her. They're both trying not to make any sudden moves, eyes occasionally glancing over at the sword beside her. "If you want another one."

"Oh. Thank you," She picks it up and opens it up, sipping at the fizzy sweet drink inside. PM would prefer water, but after being in the desert for so long, any liquid is good enough.

AR fiddles with those boxes of his, producing more food from it's infinite insides. He offers her an green apple. "Do you like sour things?"

PM can't remember, but she thinks so, so she nods and takes it. "Thank you." The first bite is overwhelming. Her face screws up as she gets used to it. She can see both AR and WV getting concerned and she shakes her head, taking a sip of soda. "It's good. I just..."

"You forgot how things taste," WV says softly and her heart aches. She was hungry in the desert, hungry for days and days, but she always seemed to find food when she really needed it. WV has that look in his eyes like no amount of food will ever be enough after so long in the desert.

PM offers him her apple and he takes it, greedily sticking it in his mouth. She and AR watch him chew and swallow the whole thing, burping at the end. He clamps his hands over his mouth, as if remembering all too late that it's rude.

"Better out than in," AR says, and gives a small burp of his own. PM doesn't meant to laugh but it just comes out, and it sounds so strange to hear it. WV and AR look startled at first by it. She stops quickly and sips at the soda to cover it up.

"No, don't stop," WV moves a little closer to PM. "It... you don't have to stop. I mean... unless you want to stop."

"No... I don't want to stop," She hasn't laughed in... she can't remember. PM can't even remember the last time she laughed. There's been nothing funny in the desert. She smiles, another thing she can't remember doing much of in so very long. WV manages a smile, and they both look at AR, who struggles, but manages to produce one of his own, even if it's more teeth than lip.

"I don't think I can do that again," WV admits though, looking to AR. AR sucks in a breath of air, making a face. But he shakes his head too.

PM feels that bubble in her stomach from the soda, and she just... lets it slide out, belching louder than both of them. AR flinches and WV throws his arms over his head at the sudden sound. She covers her mouth, mumbling around her fingers. "Sorry. Excuse me."

This time, it's their turn to laugh. It's infectious and she joins in too. The laughter is awkward and stilted, a sound they're not used to making, but it doesn't matter, not to them. It feels good, no matter how it sounds.

If friendship is a colour, then it is the grey of shadows cast by a warm fire on a cold desert night.

\--

It ends in blood.

Jack Noir is a splattered mess, red and black and even green, and she does her best to not look at him, or at the shattered ring lying on the ruined checkboard field. Her hand is red and she's not sure if she's sickened or relieved or tired. Probably all of them. Jack Noir may have taught her how to kill, but that doesn't mean she takes any enjoyment from this.

The players are there, looking equally tired and weary. She supposes she should talk to them. If it weren't for them, she wouldn't have been able to strike Jack down and end this once and for all. But they aren't her people.

Her people are behind her, and PM turns around to face them. This is not how a Queen should look. Queens are poised and dignified, endless wells of compassion, kindness and excellent advice. They are not covered in blood or so tired that they just want to lay down and sleep forever. Queens do not want to sit down and have a good long cry because they have been holding in this terror and pain and guilt for years, and now the man that had her destroy everything is dead and she's free.

There's a sea of black and white in front of her, people who are as tired and afraid as she is, people who are openly sobbing, people who are mute with shock, grief and fear. They lost everything today, their homes, their worlds, their friends and loved ones. She can see wounds on everyone, missing limbs and bleeding heads, some supporting others who can no longer stand on their own. They're hurting as badly as she is, their pain still fresh and new and not scabbed over. And in another two hours, all of this will be gone forever, wiped out when the session closes.

She isn't anything like how a Queen should but. But she's all they have right now, and they need her more than she needs sleep.

PM gestures to a few carapaces who seem to still be mostly intact and alert. "Excuse me, but we'll need to evacuate as soon as possible. Escort these people to the nearest capital ship. Are there medics here?"

A few hands go up in the crowd. Near the front, a Dersite man and a Prospitian woman step forward, both raising their hands.

"You two are in charge. All others should report to you. Treat as many as you can," PM digs her sword into the ground to stay standing, giving orders as best she can. She was never very good at them before. But she tries her best now. "Please proceed in an orderly fashion and stop to help anyone who needs assistance. We all need to leave very soon."

"PM," WV says from her side, but she ignores him for the moment, thinking of other things that need to be said.

"Take any food and water you find. We'll need it. I'll search for any other survivors." She racks her brain, ignoring how fuzzy everything is becoming. "And shelter. We need things to build shelters with."

"PM," AR speaks this time, his voice rising with concern.

"Anything useful should be brought. It's a desert on the other side of the portals. We need-" The ground beneath the sword slides and she finds herself losing her balance and falling-

And then hands grab onto her and keep her upright. WV's quickly joined by AR and they both hold on tight, getting her back upright. "Hold onto us for a little while." WV looks at her with those soft white eyes of his, and she thinks of pumpkins and fresh cool water.

"Okay," She agrees, and wraps her arm around WV's shoulders, leaning the stump on AR's. PM can let them help her for a little while. A Queen doesn't have to be alone. None of them have to be alone anymore, or afraid, or sad. Jack Noir is dead, and for the first time in so very long, she feels something more than just the need to survive. She feels hopeful.

Hope is not a colour. Hope is black and white working together instead of apart.

\--

The Propitious Monarch delivers mail once a week.

It's not her job anymore. There are other mail carriers in Can Town, and there's only one monarch. But like clockwork on Thursdays, she sets aside her crown and her royal duties and heads down to the post office to put on a sharp blue uniform and to pick up a sack full of letters and parcels.

She knows her route like the back of her hand, and everyone on it. The block is full of houses painted in cheerful colours, pinks and greens, blues and yellows, and orange, lots and lots of orange. Their mailboxes adorn the outside and she places letters in them, always flipping the little red mail flags up so they know there's something waiting for them.

It's a lovely day today, bright and sunny, a few fat white clouds floating in the sky. In one yard, carapacian children run through a sprinkler, shrieking and laughing. In another, a Dersite slumbers in his front yard, a half-read book resting on his chest. And in yet another, a Prospitian stops mowing his lawn to wave at her. She waves back, smiling as she heads on down the block.

PM always makes sure to deliver the mail. She may be a Queen now, but she doesn't want to ever forget this and how it feels to know a street so well you could be blindfolded and set anywhere on the road, and within two steps know exactly where you are. She never wants to forget the smiles of regular people and the way they live in their small neat houses, so proud and so happy, and so colourful.

Her route ends at City Hall, and she climbs the stairs, heading straight for that office up on the second floor. It's easy to find, lit by bright yellow lights in the shape of fireflies.

Even before she reaches the door, she can hear AR and WV talking. PM pauses behind the door, listening in.

"-do you think so?" WV asks, and he sounds sort of worried. That's odd. She can't remember the last time he sounded worried instead of jubilant.

"I'm sure of it. You've seen how she looks at them," AR chuckles, and she can't help but smile too. "She's going to love it."

PM can't see what exactly it is she's going to love through the frosted glass on WV's office door. Her knuckles rap sharply on the door, maybe a little louder than usual, and she gives them a few seconds before she opens it up. "Delivery for the Mayor-"

She stops dead, the words stilling in her mouth. WV's standing by his desk, looking at her with an expression caught halfway between hopeful and nervous. His monocle shines as glowing candlelight falls over the room, the deep browns of his outfit all the darker against the shining white of his sash. On the other side, AR leans against the desk, nodding to her as she enters, the light reflecting off of his police badge. He's dressed in his usual blues, and they're dark as the night sky with so little light on them. And there between them is a large carved pumpkin. A candle flickers inside of it, and the pumpkin smiles at her with overly large teeth and big friendly eyes, wonderful soft light spilling out into the office.

PM glances up at them. She can't stop the smile that fits over her face, so big that it hurts her cheeks a little. There are no words here, only colours and light.

If home has a colour, it's this.


End file.
